


Sirens, Coelacanths, and Other Sensitive Topics

by Edie_Rone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College AU, F/M, MSR, baby spookies, i like imagining they'll actually get to enjoy life, things you said when you met my parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edie_Rone/pseuds/Edie_Rone
Summary: He doesn’t care if her parents think he’s a weirdo. Oh, god, his bookish little strike-anywhere match of a girlfriend —





	Sirens, Coelacanths, and Other Sensitive Topics

It’s a very, very long, cold, wind-whipped five minutes, trying to keep up with her as she stalks down the block, furiously puffing on her Lucky Strike. He’s accepted that they’re not going to do it tonight, and is only wondering whether she’ll let him walk her to her dorm or just peel off at the campus gates, leaving him standing there like the idiot he is, when she finally speaks.

“Spooky—”

Oh thank god — she may be mad, but not mad enough to give up the nickname she’s reclaimed and redeemed from his most hated teenage memories.

“Yeah?” he says pathetically, hopefully.

“Did you _have_ to go on and on about submarines ‘Still on Patrol,’ at dinner with a Navy wife?”

He’d been unable to help himself — he was so fascinated with the Navy concept of how ships lost at sea were said to be “still on patrol,” never lost or gone or whatever, and how creepy yet cool that was. He’d noticed her mom was kind of quiet while he plied her dad with questions about that, and also mermaids and sirens and coelacanths, but didn’t think about why … 

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking! My mouth kind of runs away with me sometimes —”

“No kidding,” she says wryly, slowing her pace at last, looking up at him with an amused “you dork” expression.

“Was that what that fight was about, with your dad?”

He and Mrs. Scully had shared an extremely awkward few minutes of the smallest of talk while Dana and her dad had argued ten feet away once they’d left the restaurant, both of them trying to hear what the argument was about and both trying not to show it.

She laughs mirthlessly, stopping to douse her cigarette in a wilted snowbank and toss it in a garbage can. “No, that was just a tip, to you, from me, about making a good impression on my mom. My DAD decided he had some kind of right to tell me who I should date, thus: argument.”

He winces. “Not me, I take it?”

“Not just not you, but specifically this absolute twerp son of some guy he served with fifteen years ago, and why didn’t I even call him back, which was because: Fuck no, even if I weren’t with you, I’m not interested, and besides it’s none of my dad’s business.”

Her smile is a flash of defiant anger that changes to salty-sweet when she meets his eyes. “A year ago, I would’ve gone out with the guy — once — to keep the peace with Dad. But now — I don’t feel like doing that anymore. It isn’t honest.”

“So, what — I’m your rebellion?” he jokes, hoping with all his might that he’s more than that.

“No, you’re my …” she trails off, tilting her head contemplatively, slipping her hands into his coat pockets and pulling him closer.

“What?” he asks, softer than he intended; his heartbeat went kind of erratic there for a second.

“My Mulder,” she says simply, with a one-shouldered shrug, as if that were a complete answer, and he guesses it is. He slides his arms around her waist under her unbuttoned coat. She shivers at the cold of his hands through her thin black sweater, but they both warm up as they’re pressed together. He tucks her head under his chin, buries his nose in her coppery hair and breathes in — her shampoo, the remnants of the Lucky Strike, the chocolatey cinnamon scent of the dessert they’d shared. He doesn’t care if her parents think he’s a weirdo. Oh, god, his bookish little strike-anywhere match of a girlfriend — he wants to live with her, wants to marry her, wants to stand like this forever, on a campus side-street, wrapped up in each other, the two of them against the world — none of which he can imagine saying to her out loud, as long as he lives. 

“Take me back to your apartment?” she asks, muffled against his turtleneck. “I don’t have lab till ten tomorrow.”

He hasn’t ruined it? She likes him, actually still really likes him, even after this semi-disaster of a meeting with two of the people she loves and admires most in the world? She is — she’s a goddamn miracle, is what she is. She’s —

“I love you,” he says suddenly, the tight ache in his chest forcing the words out, past all his rational and irrational impediments.

She stills, and he wonders with sharp horror whether he’s ruined it, after all.

She removes her hands from his pockets — _oh no, please, don’t do that_, he begs her silently — and then to his immense relief, leans back from him just enough to be able to look him in the eye. This is not the look of a girl with whom he has ruined things, no. She cups his face, so gently he wants to cry, and strokes his cheekbones softly with her thumbs.

She nods, that adorable thoughtful furrow appearing between her eyebrows, and solemnly tells him, “I love you too. I have since the beginning.”

And suddenly, he’s not cold at all anymore. He’s filled with a bubbling, effervescent joy — a feeling he’s never known before but instantly can’t imagine being without. He struggles to find words; “I’m a giant Zotz candy inside!” probably won’t have the effect he’s going for.

But then she bounces onto her toes and kisses him, just getting the corner of his mouth, and he catches and holds her there, almost laughing as he slants his head to get a better angle. The wind blows her long hair against his neck like a scarf as he kisses her like it’s the best idea he’s ever had.

A loud, boisterous group of students edges past them on the sidewalk, jostling them a little, and they both remember where they are — and where they were headed.

He takes both of her hands in his and backs away, pulling her with him. She catches up, burrows under his coat and tucks herself against him with one arm slung low around his hips as they cross the street, heading north. It’s the longest and shortest, coldest and warmest three-block walk of his life. 


End file.
